| Here we come to a turning of the season
|
| Witness to the arc towards the sun
|
| A neighbor’s blessed burden within reason
|
| Becomes a burden borne of all and one
|
| And nobody, nobody knows
|
| Let the yoke fall from our shoulders
|
| Don’t carry it all, don’t carry it all
|
| We are all our hands and holders
|
| Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| A monument to build beneath the arbors
|
| Upon a plinth that towers t’wards the trees
|
| Let every vessel pitching hard to starboard
|
| Lay its head on summer’s freckled knees
|
| And nobody, nobody knows
|
| Let the yoke fall from our shoulders
|
| Don’t carry it all, don’t carry it all
|
| We are all our hands and holders
|
| Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| A there a wreath of trillium and ivy
|
| Laid upon the body of a boy
|
| Lazy will the loam come from its hiding
|
| And return this quiet searcher to the soil
|
| So raise a glass to turnings of the season
|
| And watch it as it arcs towards the sun
|
| And you must bear your neighbor’s burden within reason
|
| And your labors will be borne when all is done
|
| And nobody, nobody knows
|
| Let the yoke fall from our shoulders
|
| Don’t carry it all, don’t carry it all
|
| We are all our hands and holders
|
| Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| And this I swear to all
|
| To all
|
| To all
|
| To all |